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Hilda Conkling


The hills are going somewhere;

They have been on the way a long time.

They are like camels in a line

But they move more slowly.

Sometimes at sunset they carry silks,

But most of the time silver birch trees,

Heavy rocks, heavy trees, gold leaves

On heavy branches till they are aching . . .

Birches like silver bars they can hardly lift

With grass so thick about their feet to hinder . . .

They have not gone far

In the time I've watched them . . .